Octave
by Hallowed Aegis
Summary: Twenty years after the Destroyer was rebound, one member of the Family struggles to find her place in the world. Desperately wishing for her own path, she may live to regret it, for does the walker chose the path, or the path the walker?
1. Prologue

Hello. I am Hallowed Aegis. A few notes on the story at hand. I own absolutely none of creations of Garth Nix and his brilliant mind. I do, however, claim ownership of my (few) own original creations. I hope you enjoy. Comments, suggestions, predictions, and discourse are appreciated. Happy reading!

**Prologue**

Her eyes opened, gems of stormy topaz in a porcelain face. Far above her, brown eyes smiled, a brilliant hand brushing back a falling curtain of matted black hair. The pair stared at each other, completely entranced.

The mother, smiling, eventually looked at her two companions, though her eyes constantly drifted to the small marvel at her breast.

"Congratulations, cousin. A beautiful girl," one said. The other, her match in face, voice, and spirit, smiled.

"How ironic that such a surprise was gifted here."

The mother's smile, though constant, tightened ever so slightly. Worries that had been fleeting settled in tiny crows feet at her eyes.

"A surprise… I just wish we knew why," she murmured, eyes hungrily watching, her arms involuntarily pulling the small form closer to her. The babe, oblivious to her tension, yawned, burrowing into the proffered warmth.

As she drifted to sleep, the mother looked at her cousins, sadness painting her face. They in turn moved closer, one brushing back the sweat slicked hair, the other gently casting a Charter mark for healing. The golden glow briefly illuminated the mother's pale, pale skin, making her tone more closely resemble the browned tan that her cousins had.

"You must not fear. There may be a reason we did not foresee her birth," one said, now plaiting the hair.

"Feel how strong her hold of Life is. The doom you fear may not be," the other said, voice and smile firm.

The mother looked down, and indeed, she felt her daughter's Life, pulsing so strongly in so small a body. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her smile watery.

"Have you thought of a name?" they urged, fingers beginning to flash, gold light warming the air as they clasped hands, murmuring time honored words flush with ceremony and power.

Looking at the child, the mother's smile brightened, squinting her eyes as the light began to coalesce.

"Nehima. Her name is Nehima," she whispered, her glowing, golden hand delicately tracing the sleeping babe's face as ash disappeared, leaving a faint, shimmering symbol.

Sanar and Ryelle grinned at their cousin's irony.

"Well chosen, Lirael. May we have good reasons to remember your daughter in years to come," Sanar murmured as her twin moved to hold their new-named cousin.


	2. A Most Involved Fishing Lesson

Again, I own none of the creations of Garth Nix.

**A Most Involved Fishing Lesson**

Eyes narrowed, lips tight, she focus intently on the little bobbing string. Her audience was equally enamored, green eyes darting again and again to the wobbly shadows moving through the darting rapids. The line went taunt, and snapped.

"You are by far the worst angler in the family," her companion said moodily, settling himself in a patch of sunlight. For a moment, he was just a blinding, long-limbed figure of white, eventually forming into a white cat. Only his eyes – brighter than any gem – offered natural color to his form.

The girl's spine stiffened, rising out of its previously disheartened slump. She splashed water at the pale, elegant feline, wonderfully pleased with the irate hiss that escaped him

"Well, next time, _you_ do it. Or get Damed. Or Terciel," she snapped.

The cat made quite the production of moving to a less damp locale, though she knew he had dried almost instantly. "Jealousy isn't an attractive trait, my dear," he said silkily. She responded with an unintelligible sound. Looking heavenward for a moment, he continued calmly, "Your brothers are absolutely the last people in Life I would want to spend an afternoon with. And I _suppose_ that you are getting better." Seeing his words being dismissed, he snorted. "Nehima, stop sulking. Honestly…"

The girl sighed. "Mogget, I'm not sulking, not really." She stared out over the fast moving water, enjoying the roar and the spray. She sat very still for some time.

"They want to send me away again, you know," she said suddenly, watching him sidelong. Barely perceptible, she saw him falter in his long effort to find the perfect position in the sun. She looked back over the water, and missed his piercing glance.

"It's true. Mamma sent the hawk last week. She wants me to spend next season in the Glacier. Maybe more."

The cat sat up, a sinuous, boneless movement ill-balanced with his guarded words. "You would have Filris, at least…"

She twitched her shoulders angrily. Mogget watched silently as she began to pace. Inwardly he sighed.

Almost fourteen, his companion was every bit her parent's daughter. Her black hair curled loosely down her back, while her sharp hazel eyes remained fixed on the flagstones at her feet. She was tall for her age, her body fast approaching the full flower of womanhood. Sighing more loudly this time, he again relegated himself to the role of confessor, a distant part of him noting this most recent livelihood with disgust.

"Well, if not the Glacier, where? You can't stay here, puttering about the House. You'd go mad, trust me."

When she opened her mouth, a hot retort clearly in the making, he continued. "You absolutely detested Bain. And if you disliked that, you'll positively hate the rest of Ancelstierre, so that's out. Belisaere is an interesting city, especially the fish markets. You could live there. I might even visit."

It was Nehima's turn to snort. "Only _after_ you visit the wharves, correct? And I can't go to Belisaere. Every time I'm there, Cousin Ellemere tries to introduce me to some young, connected fellow from some distant town or village. Last time, it was Father's third cousin from Corvere, you know, the one on a diplomatic mission with his father. If I visit without a proper assignment, she'll have me engaged by sundown."

"Nonsense," said the cat. "It would take at least three days to get approval from your parents."

Nehima, about to sneer at her companion, stopped her pacing. Abruptly, she knelt down, on eye level with her companion.

"Mogget," she began tentatively, "couldn't… well, couldn't you say something to Mother? I don't mind puttering about the House, you know that. There's plenty to do. And when Cousin Sam returns, I could, I don't know, help him with his work. Or with the twins. I haven't seen them in ages, and Mother's always saying that family needs to be family. We could send out a letter today, even." Her excitement, rising as she talked through her genius plan, began to fade as the cat watched her coolly.

"No, I couldn't," he replied coldly, beginning to groom himself.

Nehima felt as if he had slapped her. Mogget had never taken that tone with her, the one he reserved for imbeciles, idiots, and her brothers in particular.

"Your parents have every right to send you to the Glacier. And it would be good for you, too. Filris is setting up shop in the Infirmary there, and you are could certainly use the practice with your healing spells. And besides, Sam and your younger siblings won't be back till mid spring, what with all the spells that need renewing along the length of the Wall on the Ancelstierran side. You would be alone for two seasons."

Nehima stretched out on the platform, her cheek on the surprisingly cool stones. She was quiet, so quiet, Mogget assumed after several long minutes that she had dozed off, when she whispered, "I hate my life. I hate being the 'Unseen,' the misplaced, the freak of the family. Damed's the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, Terciel's with the guard, Filris is the Infirmarian. Even the twins have an occupation, and they're barely ten. When will I find someplace I fit, Mogget?"

The cat swallowed his caustic reply. He knew only real, true dread would have pulled such a confession from his young, normally resilient friend. Watching her carefully, he sidestepped her question.

"Your mother was Unseen for some time. Things worked out in the end."

Nehima rolled to her back, nodding, her eyes oddly bright. If she sniffed, Mogget, displaying a sense for tact hitherto unknown, didn't comment.

"I won't talk to your parents. They're heading out to Estwael anyway, who knows when they shall return. But I will speak with the Wallmaker. You may be there all winter, but I daresay we can at least arrange for your return before spring's end."

Nehima lunged forward, and Mogget yowled, finding himself in a far too tight hug. She spun around giddily, dandling the cat in her arms.

"Thank you Mogget!" she said, smile suddenly brilliant.

"Let mph me go!" He hissed, forcing the words out of crushed lungs. "This is not dignified! I'll…!"

Nehima ignored his threats, having heard them before, and said more convincingly, when directed towards her older brothers. Instead, she kissed him on the head.

"I know, I know. You'll burn me, blast me past the Ninth Gate, feed me to a Mordicant," she listed, chuckling. She did, however, set him down, giving him a good scratch under the chin while she was at it.


	3. Difficulties in Correspondence

Welcome back! This is a relatively short chapter. It sets up Chapter Three quite nicely, so just hang in there. Hope you enjoy!

I do not own any of The Old Kingdom Trilogy characters

**Chapter Two: Difficulties in Corresponding**

Filris looked down at the letter she had written, and sighed. Her mother insisted on up to date correspondence. Yet she couldn't bring herself to fill the Abhorsen in on all the things that had occurred at the Clayr's Glacier since the arrival of Nehima. It seemed to pale in comparison to the truth. Then there was the fact that Filris didn't want to get her younger sister into trouble. Sighing, she leaned back in her chair, rubbing her neck.

The whole family had known Nehima was not happy about being forced away to yet another location. The only ones who seemed ignorant of the fact where their parents. Still, she had been shipping up the river, a sullen cargo headed for the Glacier.

It couldn't be said that Nehima didn't try to fit in. She had, signing up for the work rosters and kitchen duty immediately. She was always on time for Arms classes. She was never rude, never shirked.

This was not to say she was perfect, however. Finding her an assignment had proved a trial, one Filris had handled with dread. She had known the moment her mother sent her the letter that her sister would be difficult, though mostly through no fault of her own.

Nehima's biggest fault within the community was that she was bored. It was true she did all that was asked of her, but she did it mindlessly, always half asleep. She rarely spoke to the other Clayr on duty with her. And while their cousin's believed it was her mother's own shyness reborn, Filris knew better. Nehima should have been babbling like a brook in high spring. Instead, she did exactly what was asked of her without any real enthusiasm.

She had been rotated through a variety of positions. She had the skills required for the Paperwing Corps, or even the trainees that went on to become Rangers. And it was true that she practiced their craft, practicing sword fighting with the Rangers and helped make repairs in the Paperwing hanger. But she was always aloof, always dull, never engaging. She had only lasted a scant week in the Infirmary, and rarely stayed long enough to say hello these days.

She did seem to have inherited her mother's love of books. However, she had been removed from the Great Library, seeming to have an uncanny knack for finding sections that were best left undisturbed. And so she sulked, constantly shunted about from occupation to occupation. And she was miserable for it, feeling perhaps more of an outsider than when she had first arrived.

Filris sighed again, massaging her temples. Then there was the matter of the other visitor they were expecting in the coming month. Damed had been stationed in Belisaere for most of the autumn. However, he would be making a quick stop at the Glacier, both to visit his siblings and to recuperate before going on to join their parents in Estwael. And there inlay the problem. Damed and Nehima had never got on well; something there seemed to rankle. While usually capable of civil, they also did tend to have the most catastrophic fights. Damed, never the best with tact, would tease his sister for her lack of place. And Nehima would certainly rise to the occasion.

Filris glanced at her letter, and decided it would best to leave it for a while. Instead, she exited her small Infirmary office to head to find the source of all this stress.

* * *

Nehima was not in her room. She was not in either Refractory. In fact, it took Filris the better part of an hour to track down her errant sibling. When she did, following the guesses of various Clayr, she couldn't quite contain her gasp.

Nehima stirred from her slumped position on the small desk. Blinking sleep for her eyes, she froze upon seeing her tall sister in the threshold of the previously abandoned office she had commandeered.

Filris didn't say anything immediately. Instead, she began to walk about the long narrow office, eyes wide as she took in the many shelves. Every available space held a potted plant. And they all glowed, golden Charter marks shifting along and inside the stems and leaves.

Nehima swallowed hard, unsure what she ought to say. She hadn't meant for Filris – or anyone, really – to find out about her project until she had finished. As it was, this was just her second successful growth; she still had loads left to do. Clearing her throat, she attempted to explain.

"I, um, well, I found this office, and no one was using it, and it had lights to mimick the sun, you see, so I knew it would work, and I really did need a spot to let them grow. I haven't skipped any assignments, you know, I've only been using my own time for this, and it's gone well, really well in fact, better than I ever did at the House, or in Bain, or in Belisaere…" her voice trailed off as Filris turned to her, one chestnut eyebrow rising slowly.

"What are these?" Filris asked, turning back to the plants. They were all things she recognized from the house, ferns and roses and herbs and even a small selection of tiny trees that had been pruned into dwarfism.

"Well, they're plants," Nehima said. Filris coughed, and Nehima knew that explanation wouldn't cover it. "They're plants that I've imbued with Charter Marks since they were seeds. I got the idea from the Messenger Hawks we used. The spell is cast while its still an egg, and then as it grows, the spell expands. Only here, I decided to only use marks that enhance the innate qualities of the plant."

"But not in the trees. There are other marks here, though I'm not sure…" Filris murmured, placing her palm on a delicate pine. She closed her eyes, and Nehima saw a golden light from the point where skin met trunk.

"Well, the trees are the next step. I knew once I could expand on the natural magic, I could maybe add something else. I thought that… that maybe they could be like a living Charter Stone. Not as powerful, obviously. And clearly they would fade and die, like all trees do in time. But I figured that if they could hold a spell for healing, say, then they could be placed in the Infirmary." Nehima paused, swallowed hard, and forced herself to continue, feeling her face begin to heat. "And if they could hold a healing spell, then maybe they could hold other things. Like spells to repel the Dead. And if that worked, then people that don't live near a stone or running water would have some protection at night," she whispered, cheeks burning in her pale face. She hadn't wanted to admit her lofty goals, especially when she wasn't at all sure they would work. Still, Filris knew her well enough to know instantly when she lied. It would be easier to face the embarrassment head on, instead of having it drawn out. She braced herself, waiting for the rejection she was sure was forthcoming.

Filris watched her sister, her father's green eyes oddly pensive in her face. She kept her hand on the pine, and felt tension ease out of her muscles. The headache that had been gnawing on her senses lessened, and then disappeared into the background. "Are they ready to be used?" she asked abruptly, an idea forming in her mind. She was so wrapped up in the logistics, who she would have to talk to and what would be needed, that she almost missed Nehima's gaping expression. She grinned.

"I mean, yes, they are, but this is only the second growth, I haven't placed all the spells I want on them, that's in the next seeding," Nehima babbled, feeling as if the world had turned upside-down.

Filris nodded, her lips moving as she thought to herself. "And when will the third seeding be ready?" she asked, eyes intent.

Nehima scrambled with the papers on her desk. Reading it from her strange angle, Filris saw some sheets of Charter Marks, while still others were of planting, watering, spelling and seeding schedules. Nehima, it seemed, had reason to have been absent minded at her tasks. Finally, Nehima found the proper sheet. "They should be ready for planting at the end of Thursday next. This batch only just finished coming out with seeds, you see. I have a few spells on them to speed up their growth. That's starting to wear off, though. Which is for the best, the spells will be stronger for a long, slow growth," she said, almost apologetically.

Filris nodded. "Wonderful. Then Friday next, I expect to see the next planting in the Infirmary. I'm sure they'll do a world of good there," she said crisply. Nehima sat back in her chair with a sharp thud. "And I rather think we can find you a better spot to work than an old supply closet," Filris called as she left. She smiled, thinking she had found a much better ending to her letter after all.


	4. Smiles Slow & Sly

**I do not own any of The Old Kingdom Trilogy characters**

**Chapter Three: Smiles Slow & Sly**

Green eyes narrowed as the cat, tail twitching madly, read the girl's letter again. Though sardonic at their parting, Mogget was not at all pleased with Nehima's deployment to the Clayr's Glacier. Abhorsen's House, for all its comforts, was terribly dull without any of the family in residence. After millennia of long such stretches of boredom, he was disinclined to suffer it much longer. Though it had to be said that he did enjoy greater license these days. No longer bound to one form, no longer bound to remain, no longer in servitude. It was with such thoughts that the cat sat back on his haunches, his eyes suddenly half closed and a sly grin playing about his whiskers.

Mogget had remained with the family for his own reasons. With his long years of servitude came a set of engrained habits he was not at all inclined to forsake. Having the comfort of Abhorsen's House to retreat to, with its constant supply of fish, was one of them.

Another he would never admit to. The creature was lonesome, exactly how lonesome being thrown into sharp relief when without the presence of his young friend. After living through the ages, watching the world continue in its cycle of life, death, and rebirth, the cat was painfully aware that any of his kindred were either bound, as was Orranis, or had given themselves to the Charter and its preservation. There was little for him out in the world. Distractions might be able to entertain him, but they would be more fleeting than the seasons. With the Family he had a purpose and was a respected, if not thoroughly forthcoming, ally.

Of course, there was another reason he remained, one he had chosen not to elucidate to the current Abhorsen. Mogget remembered the day Lirael had returned from her mission to Ancelstierre, Nick Sayre in tow. His fur stood on edge, verdant eyes seeing the time they had spent beginning a courtship that had turned into a prolific marriage. A low hiss escaped him.

Long years and painful experience had taught Mogget many things. He had seen all manner of acts, both great and noble, and sly and traitorous. It was the latter which occupied his thoughts most these days. Mogget did not trust the current generation of the family. Though its progenitors had gifted him with freedom, their other choices had proven less than confidence inspiring. Specifically, it was the Blood.

Mogget had every reason to distrust the Blood. He had seen it time and time again manipulated, abused, corrupted over his long ages with the Family. This generation, with the nearly undiluted power of the Ninth Bright Shiner pumping through their veins to mix with the Charter bloodlines, was the most suspect of all. He did not believe that the Destroyer's influence would be so easily contained, or ignored. Though clearly the bloodlines had gained new life through its strength, he distrusted the power.

Nehima, perhaps, was the only one he considered trustworthy. The child had been born with an eerie awareness that had little to do with her Clayr ancestry. Of all the siblings, she was the only one that had recognized him as, if not the Eighth Bright Shiner, more than what he appeared. The twins and Filris had gradually come to the same conclusion, but only she had had that moment, that instant perception of his true form.

Mogget stretched, lengthening his body as all cats did…and continued stretching. His shape glowed, twitching and flaring, until he was vaguely man shaped. Raising a long appendage, he watched as it grew digits, loosely resembling a human hand. He stretched these fingers, and then clenched, his fist a white-hot sun in the darkened study. It seemed prudent to build up his strength, long atrophied in his confinement. He had little doubt that some time soon, he would unleash it on one of the Family.

He chuckled, a terribly dark, crackling sound. It would be an exercise he would enjoy, though he was aware of a tiny voice that hoped Nehima wouldn't be the one.

The door to the study slammed open, a sending in the threshold, its posture very disapproving. Mogget contemplated blasting the creature back into the Charter, but paused. Though he did want his vengeance on this particular sending for its hated policy of bath-giving, it would serve no purpose other than to alert the Abhorsen to the reclamation of some of this former strength. Instead, Mogget shrank, compressing himself back into his cat's shape, a sly smile on his lips.

He could wait. After all, he had done so for millennia; a few more years wouldn't hurt.

* * *

HMMM What is that crafty cat up to? Mogget has always been one of my favorite characters. What is he up to? R+R!


	5. Fireside Vigil

**Chapter Four: Fireside Vigil**

Nicholas Sayre was in a terrible mood. He made an awkward figure, half carrying and half dragging a body that was made heavier by the steady drizzle. Grunting with the effort, he finally reached their destination: a small outcrop of land in a delta. With surprising tenderness, he settled the body under a stunted tree before drawing a long steel blade. Quickly piling kindling and tinder, he pointed, croaking a word. Flames shot up, crackling merrily. He moved to the perimeter, gold marks washing down metal as he raised a diamond of protection. Hastily finishing off the North mark, he returned to still form under the tree. Glowing symbols were flaring in his hands when a golden appendage grasped his wrist.

"Lirael," he breathed, unable to hide his relief. "Thank the Charter." Carefully, he bent down and embraced his wife.

Lirael Goldenhand, Abhorsen, blinked up at him. Her skin, always pale and cold, was even whiter. She licked bloodless lips, trying to urge them into usefulness. Nicholas watched her for a moment, and then turned his attention back to the Charter. Gathering the marks in one hand, he lifted the rough burlap bandage he had tied about her left thigh.

It was an ugly mess. A barbed arrow had ripped into her leg, and then torn into the muscle when they had removed it. At the time, speed had been a priority over delicacy; just now, Nick was bitterly wishing he had been better able to defend his wife. In an effort to make himself feel useful, he made a show of tending the wound, layering spell after spell upon flesh and bandage.

He was scowling when a gold palm lifted his chin. Lirael's deep brown eyes were looking at him. She was always so poised, his wife. But now, he could detect the shaking of her chin, felt the tremor in her hand. Saw the wetness in her eyes.

Forgetting all his prior gentleness, he hauled her roughly into his arms, squeezing the breath from her lungs. She clutched him just as desperately, her hands checking his body for injury. After a long tense moment, their hold eased but did not cease. Nick cleared his throat, a decidedly militant look in his eye.

"What were you thinking, going haring after Chlorr? I was still in the village. You know better than to go toe to toe with one of the Greater Dead without some back up!" he snapped, without real anger. He could see her lips regaining some color.

The Ahborsen sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. "Chlorr was making for the orphanage outside the village. I couldn't let her get the children. Not after Gardil. And I didn't expect her to work with the living; that's a new trick of hers."

"Well, you can bloody well file that away for future reference," Nick snarled, his jaw working furiously.

Lirael nodded, tracing his cheek. She smiled faintly. "You need a shave," she murmured.

"Damn it Lirael, this is not the time to be discussing grooming habits!" Nick hissed. "Chlorr led you like a lamb to slaughter, and she would have succeeded if-if," he struggled to finish his thought, not wanting to put it into words. If he said it aloud, it would be real.

"If you hadn't arrived, I'd be dead," she finished quietly, her fingertips resting on his lips. "I know, Nick. I could easily be among the other corpses in the funeral pyre tonight. Or worse."

Nick let out a great, shuddering breath. "This has to stop, Lirael. Chlorr's been leading us on a merry chase all about the Kingdom, and each time we meet, she's learned some new trick. We are a team. This is no time to haring off alone. You need to promise me you'll be careful," he whispered, voice breaking. "Chlorr isn't our usual target. Even for the one of the Greater Dead, she's dangerous. And she still feels like… like It," he finished, words dying altogether.

Lirael kissed the underside of his jaw. "I know, love. I know. I promise." Nick nodded, feeling his eyes prickle. He resettled her in his arms, making it plain he had no intention of letting her go. Lirael smiled, and relaxed.

"We can call the Paperwing in the morning," she said easily, as if they had not just escaped a battlefield strewn with corpses of the freshly killed and enslaved. "We burned the bodies, and Chlorr will have gone to ground. We should have a few months peace at least."

"Until she pops up again in some other godforsaken part of the Kingdom," Nick growled. Lirael made a soft noise of agreement as she watched the glowing embers.

They were silent for a long time, each retreating into their thoughts. Lirael looked up from under her lashes at her husband. She had spoken truly; he did need a shave. Blue stubble dotted his chin, playing tricks on his skin in the firelight. He looked tired. Crows feet framed his eyes, and there were harsh frown lines to frame his mouth.

She knew what occupied her husband's thoughts. After nearly two decades of marriage, they knew each other inside and out.

Nicholas would be dwelling on that strange, horrible connection he shared with Chlorr. Both had been a host to the fragment of Orranis. Both had been bound to servitude, and both still felt the pull, the constant thrum of his power to their very marrow. For her husband, every sunrise was a battle won; though the Charter had accepted him and kept the Free Magic from overtaking his mind, body, and soul, it was a very near thing. Early in their marriage, he would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. Reliving his time at the pit, and the dreadful feeling of otherness in his limbs. Even now there were nights when Nick did not want to go to sleep, afraid of if he would be Nick when he awoke, or something else.

But he would also be turning his mind to the spirit's actions. Nick had not lost his scientific approach, for all that he now lived in the Old Kingdom. He still sought out patterns, anomalies, and questions, always questions.

"We can't know where she'll surface next," he said sometime later. His voice was much calmer, much more like the thoughtful, perceptive hunter of the Dead she had known. "She's proven that much. But she doesn't ever seem to be causing lasting damage, have you noticed? She doesn't break Charter Stones, doesn't enslave half the spirits she could…she just makes a fuss, and then tries to slow us down."

"I thought so too," Lirael murmured. "It's like the last time. Sabriel said that Chlorr and other necromancers dragged her up and down the length and breadth of the Kingdom. I don't know what her purpose is this time, though. The Destroyer is freshly bound, and the prison holds him tight."

Nick, looking more haggard at the mention of his former possessor, nodded grimly. "Patterns without meaning," he whispered, lips barely moving.

Lirael watched as he brows furrowed, watched as he nearly lost himself in thought once more. "I think we shall have to return to the House and speak with Mogget," she said.

Nick harrumphed. "Damn cat," he said by way of explanation. Lirael couldn't quite hold back her chuckle. Nick and Mogget had a tempestuous relationship at best. Nick didn't trust the unbound Eighth Shiner, so like Orranis in power. If possible, Mogget trusted the Destroyer's former avatar even less than he distrusted the cat. It made for some truly spectacular family gatherings.

"He may have a different perspective," she said soothingly. Nick harrumphed again, but nodded.

"We may as well send a message to Belisaere, tell Damed not to fly out. There's no point, what with things on the mend here," he said, still sounding a bit gruff. Lirael nodded, idly flicking his sandy blonde hair.

"Yes, that makes sense. And we will be able to catch up with the post," she said gratefully. Nick tightened his hold momentarily, and then eased. His wife knew better than anyone the sacrifice it took to be Abhorsen. She had given her hand and the life of a dear, dear friend to save their world. Her body bore witness to the countless battles they had fought, each taking a greater toll than the last. And now she had given what was most precious to her; her time as a mother, forsaking her offsprings' childhood. It was a bitterness he shared, and that they buried deep. Catching up on post, reading the letters she greedily horded, was as close as she had been to her children for months on end.

"We could go see them, you know," he said quietly. Lirael nodded, the fire swimming before her eyes. She rubbed them, sniffing a bit.

"If we have time," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. Nick placed a kiss on her neck.

"Of course we will, love," he murmured. "Of course we will, you'll see."

Lirael nodded wetly, burrowing her face into his chest. As their fire burned low, Nick set himself to easing her hurts, praying to the Charter his wife wouldn't have her hopes shattered again.

* * *

I really wanted to show them as a unit. One of the strongest points in the series (to me at least) has always been the idea of sacrifice, and how things come with a cost. One of the reasons I love Touchstone/Sabriel so much is that they are partners sharing that weight. I did toy with the idea of Nick being absent early on, but it didn't seem fair, to have Lirael carry that alone.

Let me know your thoughts!


	6. Glacial Reunion

I do not own any OKT characters

**Chapter Five: Glacial Reunion**

The sun was high, turning the Glacier into a gilded beacon the morning the Paperwing arrived. Red and gold, it was from the Royal Fleet, piloted by a member of the Guard. The pilot eased the craft down in lazy circles, eventually touching down lightly. As soon as the Paperwing halted, two figures clambered out, stretching sore limbs and aching backs. The pilot moved to the front of the craft, resting a hand on the things nose. The passenger, shoulders thrown back in a slightly ridiculous strut, began making his way toward the hangar.

Once inside, various Clayr helped them shed the thick coats, goggles, and gloves required for flying in such cold climes. Without the added bulk, the two guests looked less like barrels with legs and more like young men. The pilot was a tall, well muscled fellow, deep brown eyes alert as he rested his hand on the Charter Blade at his side. His companion was just as tall, but somehow had less of a presence. Handsome, with the pale, pale skin that ran in the family, he casually handed off his pack, trusting everything would be taken care of.

They began to move into the Glacier, feet finding the familiar paths down and in toward warmth and welcome.

"Thank the Charter. Another hour or so and I think my backside would've become part of the damn thing," the handsome one said, indolent tones rolling down the corridor.

The pilot, his face set in the standard parade mask, replied calmly, "It wasn't that bad a flight. And keep your voice down; the Clayr are more strict about behavior than father."

The passenger rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I promise to be perfectly sociable as soon as I've had a bath."

Again the pilot's tones were steady. "We really should check in with the girls first, brother." A snort was his only response. The pilot decided to leave it at that; there was very little he could do when his brother was determined to be disobliging.

Two older Clayr, almost unearthly in their white gowns, met them in the Lower Refractory. Sanar – or was it Ryelle – held out her hands in welcome, a smile lighting her face.

"Cousins, welcome. We Saw your arrival," she murmured, exchanging a quick embrace.

"-but still, we worried about the storm," her twin finished, clasping hands warmly with the visitors.

The handsome one nodded, but said nothing; there was a slight curl to his lip, perhaps in derision at the thought of a Clayr that didn't trust her Sight.

It did not go unnoticed by his companion. The younger of the two, the pilot, cut his eyes at his passenger sharply. Then he shrugged, shaking snowflakes out of his gilded brown hair. "Thank you, Cousins. The flight was fine; a bit blustery toward the end, but nothing we couldn't handle."

"We are please that you have arrived safely," Ryelle said easily, ignoring their silent companion as they walked through the Glacier.

"We have set up rooms for you, should you wish to rest. Your sisters are in their respective workrooms. They will be happy to see you," said Sanar, smiling at her guests. "We can take you to them now, or if you prefer, to your chambers."

The two exchanged glances. The handsome one moved along the passage, not waiting for his hosts to show them the way..

"I think I would like to clean up," his voice echoed back.

The pilot frowned slightly at the retreating shape of his brother before turning to their cousins.

"I think I had best report to Filris. No doubt she's been fretting over our arrival," he said softly, eyes still fixed on the lone figure as it turned a corner and vanished from sight.

"Your sister will appreciate your concern, Terciel," Ryelle murmured, smiling slightly.

Terciel nodded, his serious face still lost in thought. "I want to apologize for my brother's behavior, cousins. Damed isn't always the best after a long journey," he said politely.

Sanar and Ryelle exchanged a glance, wicked humor flickering across their features momentarily before slipping back to their normal repose.

"There was no offense taken, cousin," said Sanar.

"After all, we had foreseen it," Ryelle ended.

* * *

Filris was indeed happy when Terciel entered her little office. Her older brother swept her into a rough hug, and Filris was beyond caring about all the sharp and painful hilts of weapons seen and unseen that jutted out to meet her.

Filris stepped back from her brother, having to crane her neck slightly to meet his eyes. Terciel continued to grow. The breadth of his shoulders was new, as were the multitude of scars that littered his hands. Plainly training agreed with him.

"Please, sit before I get a crick in my neck from looking at you," she said warmly, gesturing to an oversized chair in the corner. She moved to sit on her desk, not standing on ceremony with her brother.

Terciel eased down, a grateful groan attesting to muscles still tender from the flight.

"I didn't know we'd get to see you. The letter only mentioned that Damed was coming," she said, rattling about making tea for the two of them. Tercield took the proffered cup, humming appreciatively at the taste.

"He's here. You know His Highness; couldn't stand the thought of smelling like an oil-skin for any longer than he had to," Terciel murmured, chuckling to himself. "I swear Filris, he wouldn't last a week with the Guard."

His sister smiled, but a line had appeared between her brows. Terciel mentally berated himself; of course Filris would start to worry about Damed after _that _glowing appraisal.

"So what've you and Nee been up to in the Great White North," he asked, determined to change the subject. "Any new projects? Is she adjusting well?"

Filris blinked, a slow smile erasing the concern from her face. "You know, it's funny you should ask that…"

* * *

Elsewhere, Damed was strolling through the corridors, doing his best impression of a man who knew exactly where he was going. In truth, he was hopelessly lost. He had never really liked the Glacier; it was too much like an overrun warren for his tastes, though he would never say so to any of the Family.

He was just about to surrender his pride and ask a passing Clayr for directions to Filris' office when a faint gold light caught his eye. He allowed his senses to spread, to seek. The spell was one for growing, but the casting felt vaguely familiar. Feeling immensely pleased with himself, he made for the door, not bothering to knock.

* * *

Nehima was just placing the last of an incredibly complex series of marks when she heard the door to her office open. She didn't bother to look up, stead calling, "I'll be with you in a moment," from her position at the worktable. She felt the marks sink in to the dwarf tree's bark, going deeper until at last it settled in the heartwood, streaming down to the roots and encasing the plant in marks meant to promote steady, strong growth. Humming a little self-satisfied tune to herself, she stepped away from the bench, rolling her neck as she turned to see who had interrupted her work this time.

All satisfaction fled the moment she realized it was Damed leaning languidly on the doorframe. His eyes, a golden hazel much like her own, were sliding over the plants under her care, a telltale sneer in the making on his annoyingly handsome face.

"Well well well, playing in the dirt again, little sister?" he asked, moving in to examine the fruits of her labor. Nehima clenched her fists, determined not to stand for any of her brother's nonsense.

She felt that same sensation she always felt around Damed; her hackles rising, gooseflesh appearing on her arms. She wasn't sure why she reacted this way; she knew he could be quite charming when he set his mind to it, and that he had his moments of kindness. She didn't like the way he wore his title like a badge, or the way he lorded it over his siblings. Damed had never suffered from a lack of confidence, landing him firmly in the self-importance category in Nehima's mind. Still, it didn't account for the uneasy feeling that always crept over her, stealing her breath away.

Damed was oblivious to all of Nehima's internal conflict. Instead, he ran his fingers over the plants, feeling the spells for healing and relaxation warm to his touch.

"It's very sweet, Nehima. I'm sure these will be a help in the Infirmary," he said sincerely, feeling the tightness in his back ease. Nehima's posture relaxed; she knew she was being silly, getting all worked up about her brother's arrival. The appreciation was very real in his eyes as he moved down the row. "And-"

His voice stopped, silence cutting through the warmth like a blade. Nehima felt her body tense as Damed paused in front of her latest project. It was a small rowan tree, Charter marks visible as they flowed in and over and through the bark and leaves. She had placed the most powerful spells she knew on it from three seedings back, working with the Ranger Captain for those marks she was too inexperienced to handle on her own. She knew Damed had stopped when he recognized the marks, marks that were so important to his line of study. Marks for the repelling, the breaking, and the binding of the Dead.

He turned to her slowly. Gone was the genuine affection, the sincerity, the approval she had found herself aching for from her oldest sibling. Back again was that sneer, the one he seemed to reserve for her alone. Nehima knew heat was rushing to her face, and felt her temper rise in kind, waiting for his words to lash out as they always did.

"It's so sweet," he began, clearly meaning the total opposite, "but you really mustn't get ideas above your station, Nehima. I'm sure these are a wonderful _academic_ exercise, but they're terribly impractical," he said softly, words biting deep in that slow, melodic tenor of his. "You can't honestly expect these to work, can you?"

Nehima felt her knuckles creak as Damed flung every doubt, every roadblock she had faced in the tending of her Charter woods back at her. Her teeth ground together as she fought to keep her temper in check.

"It really is _so_ sweet of you, but I'm afraid you really don't know what you're dealing with. The Dead are the province of the Abhorsen; not something you should be play acting at, don't you agree?" he asked softly, breath fluttering the hairs by her ear. Damed watched as Nehima struggled to find words, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "I didn't think so." He moved to turn away when Nehima found her voice.

"Tell me Damed, where are your bells?" she asked, voice gaining strength and heat with every syllable. Her brother froze, his whole body trembling; Nehima knew she had struck gold. Though it wasn't mature of her by any means, she decided to strike back, blood for blood.

"It's all well and good for you to talk about being the Abhorsen, but you're not, are you?" she asked, suberbly disdainful. Damed wheeled around, his face contorted with rage. "I thought a _real_ Abhorsen-in-waiting would've had the Bells by now. Maybe you're just slow; maybe the Bells don't want you," she goaded, fatalistic. Damed was stalking closer, murder in his eyes. She knew that in a few seconds, this newfound confidence would become a very painful experience, but she didn't mind. It was worth it, to see Damed this angry.

"You know _nothing_," Damed hissed, leaning down to go nose to nose with his sister. "Your things are just stupid little _toys_. They are _useless_, no one will want them, no one will use them, they're just a waste of time, you worthless little-"

"That's funny. For something so useless, Mother and the Queen have ordered a lot of them," a hard voice said from the door. Filris stormed in, her eyes flashing. Terciel followed closely behind. Nehima could see Charter marks swarming in his hands; he was plainly ready, should things take a turn for the worse. She felt a grin twitch at the corner of her mouth; apparently Guard training was very, very thorough. Terciel caught her gaze, and she saw his eyes crinkle just a bit at the corners before smoothing into his usual solemn expression.

Damed had plastered on his most charming smile. "Nehima and I were just discussing the pitfalls of her latest project," he said easily. "I was merely pointing out that-"

Filris held up her hand. "Save it Damed. We heard plenty of your little discussion. Mother and the Queen have already placed an order for the next seeding. As soon as the ground thaws, the constabulary will be overseeing the planting of Nehima's Charter woods around the Kingdom at our more at risk locations. Mother is thrilled."

Damed's engaging smile never faltered, but Nehima knew his eyes were spitting sparks at their sister.

Filris met his gaze coolly. "She sent a letter, hoping to catch you here. She also says you needn't bother flying on; mother and father managed everything quite well in Estwael. She requests that you fly back to Belisaere; she'll meet you there in a few weeks," she said firmly. "Now, we will be having dinner in half an hour. I suggest we all repair to our rooms, clean up, and meet in the Lower Refractory." With that, she began to usher Damed out, brooking no opposition.

Terceil hung back, clapping Nehima on the shoulder. She didn't look at him, keeping her watery gaze fixed on her hands. "Her Majesty is excited too. Don't let him get to you, Nee. Dam's always been a prat," he murmured, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze before walking out.

Nehima stared at her worktable, frustration and pain and anger bubbling and surging inside of her. She slammed her fists down on the table, causing her latest project to tip over the edge and crash to the floor, dirt and tree and pottery flying everywhere. She hung her head, tears painting the swirling grains of the wood for a long, silent moment before she began to clean up her mess.

* * *

Sometimes reunions just suck, no two ways about it.


	7. Many Meetings

I do not own any OKT material

**Chapter Six: Many Meetings**

Mogget yawned widely, knowing it would irritate Nick to no end. The Abhorsen and her consort had not been in residence long, only just recovering from their recent stint in the North. Lirael had suffered the attentions of the sendings, each silently insisting they knew the best way to care for the current Abhorsen. It had proved a very entertaining week in that respect.

Entertainment was the least of their concerns at the moment. The Abhorsen, her consort, and the Wallmaker all stood arrayed in the Abhorsen's office, each carrying their own burdens and worries. The consort kept flicking his eyes back to his wife, clearly not entirely convinced she was well enough to be discussing her next foray into the paths of the Dead. The Wallmaker was perusing the bookshelves, his face shadowed. Darkness was no real barrier to Mogget, though; he knew well that set of Prince Sameth's brows. The Abhorsen herself was perhaps the least preoccupied. She alone kept her gaze fixed on Mogget, ignoring her husband and nephew.

"So, you've managed to get Chlorr riled up again. How impractical of you," Mogget said at last, stretching his feline form until it draped over the most comfortable chair in the room. His ears twitched, catching the hasty cough from the Prince meant to hide a laugh.

Nick wasn't so composed. "Impractical. You call Lirael taking an arrow to the leg _impractical?_" he asked, voice strangled.

The Abhorsen waved her hand, a negating gesture. Her husband subsided, eyes furious.

Mogget smiled, twitching his whiskers at the man before he began to clean himself. It was a useless exercise; these days he bathed in human form, but he saw no need to alert his hosts to that particular change in his habits.

"What can you tell us about Chlorr," Lirael asked, her gaze steady. Mogget didn't try to evade it or the question; the Abhorsen had cut her eyeteeth on a far more elusive subject than he. It would serve no point, beyond getting his tail singed by her prickly consort. Still, it didn't mean he had to be entirely cooperative.

"Well, that depends on what you already know," he said slowly, twisting his head around as only cats can to reach his back. Behind him, the bulk that was Prince Sameth moved out of the murky gloom.

"We believe that Chlorr has ties to the Family. But we are less concerned with that then we are about knowing her habits, in Life, as a Necromancer. She has proven to be a slippery target," the Wallmaker said firmly, his voice rich and carrying in the confines of the office.

Mogget rather liked the Wallmaker; he had become something of a friend as he matured, often spending weeks on end at the House working on one project or another. Mogget particularly enjoyed these times, both because he liked having his ego stroked when the man came to him with questions, and because Sameth always came with a hefty supply of bribes – sardines.

It was with this in mind that Mogget answered promptly. No sense in cutting off his nose to spite his face, after all.

"That is telling enough. Chlorr was always overcautious in Life. She dislikes direct confrontation, as you have seen from your recent tangles with her," he said, nodding in Lirael's direction. "Chlorr was never a servant, either to Kerrigor or to the Destroyer, save late in her life, and then I suspect it was unwittingly, when her pride got the better of her. I think you will find that Chlorr is unlikely to be a servant in the current state of things."

Nick had moved closer to Lirael, idly tracing a finger across her palm. Now he snorted. "Well that's obvious."

Mogget narrowed his eyes at the man. "You should bear in mind that in serving the Destroyer, some residual echoes of It's power likely run through her. It is entirely possible that she still acts as a conduit for these deep-seeded desires," he said cruelly, watching as the fair-haired man blanched. "Her attempts to draw out the Abhorsen could have less to do with Lirael than with you, Nicholas Sayre. I imagine drinking the blood that held the Ninth Bright Shiner would enhance certain…qualities Chlorr has acquired over the years," he said slowly, relishing the fear that grew behind Nick's blue eyes. The fire in them blazed, flickered, and died.

"Mogget," Lirael said sharply, squeezing her husband's hand. The cat settled himself in the chair sulkily. Lirael heard something rather like, "He started it," drift over. Shaking her head, she rubbed Nick's hand, hating how it was as cold as her own. Nick was her warmth, her heat, her heartbeat. She hated seeing that look in his eyes. It reminded her of the Dead.

"Yrael," Sam began, his gaze never leaving Mogget's. Of all the Family, Sam was the only one who openly Named the cat's true nature. He supposed it was fair; the Wallmaker had been the one to free him twenty years ago.

"Yes Your Highness?" the cat replied silkily, doing his best to appear innocent.

"I would like your honest opinion on the matter at hand. Chlorr has gone to ground. We have received no word for the better part of a month. What are your thoughts? Your suspicions, even the most fleeting, have proven very valuable to this family; we need your counsel again," Prince Sameth said calmly. Mogget felt the faint ring of the Royal Blood behind his words. In spite of himself, he felt a stirring of what felt strangely like affection for the Prince. He had grown up well. Mogget dismissed the notion immediately; the only reason he felt anything so kind toward the Prince was because he, Mogget, had been such an obvious part of his formative years. It was only natural for him to feel something toward a successful pupil.

The cat sat up straight, as if reporting to a superior officer. "The Abhorsen defeated Chlorr soundly, with inferior numbers and inferior resources. The consort was not involved in the battle. Your children are growing in power. I believe that Chlorr will take time to hide, to recoup from her losses, and to plan."

Lirael eased back into her chair. Mogget noted this, green eyes hard.

"I wouldn't get too comfortable yet, Abhorsen. Remember, the longer Chlorr hides away…"

"…the more dangerous she is," Lirael said tiredly, rubbing a hand over her face. "Of course. Thank you, Mogget. We will be counting on your continued insight." Slowly, the Abhorsen got to her feet. Mogget thought he had never seen her so weary, so burdened. Again there was that niggling of emotion. And again, he tamped it out fiercely.

Slowly, the Abhorsen and her companions filed out. Mogget knew Lirael would be heading to the twin's room, wanting to see to her two youngest children while she had time.

That left the cat alone, in the dark. His eyes glowed as he took in the emptiness of the room. Though the Family had come to him for information, they had given much away, none of it to the cat's liking. Chlorr had been growing more and more aggressive, going so far as to actively bait the current Abhorsen and those loyal to her. And now, she had vanished. Lirael had spoken truly when she said Chlorr was more dangerous in her absence that she was in her presence. Mogget had known Chlorr in Life. Her name had been different then. She had been different, before the sadness of her tale came to unfold. But always, always she had retained that clever streak. It left him uneasy. Mogget found himself hoping she did not stay away too long. The longer she was missing, the more real her threat would become.

* * *

A shorter chapter, and the first appearance of Sam!


	8. Interlude

I do not own any OKT material

**Chapter Seven: Interlude**

She was massive, an ever changing, fluid mass of dark spirit flesh. What had once been a mouth was now a maw, carrion scented breath slithering out behind row upon row of jagged teeth as brilliant as starlight. Her eyes were now just pits of flame, threatening to drown the looker for all time. She had never been a beauty in Life; towards the end, her body had been a prison, old age barring her from practicing her art, a birthright long denied. The Destroyer had both chained and freed her, giving her power scope and direction while making her a slave to his will. Her hatred for It still ate away at her spirit, her fear of It the reason she never ventured near its new tomb. Even now, with leagues in Life and Death between her and the cairn, she could still feel It raging against the silver bonds. She suspected she always would, a remnant from her time as its servant. She felt no pity for the thing; she served it no longer, and never would again.

Still, her time as its slave had proven beneficial, loathe though she was to admit it. The Destroyer was ancient in treachery, and acting as It's avatar and later It's general had been illuminating. Nearly two decades after such a time, the thing still gave, knowledge and power hard bought flowing through her amorphous form. Unwittingly, the Destroyer was now providing for her a plan for her future. A future she intended to spend in Life.

For the moment, however, she was content to hide away in Death. Sooner or later, she would begin the long, cold trek back to Life, out of the eternal grey that dragged on her now, trying to pull her deeper, past the yawning darkness, to that final gate from which there was no return. She had completed the first stage of her plan; the Abhorsen was on edge, confused and wounded. She could afford to lay low until her chosen vessel sought her out. The irony did not escape her; she was rather looking forward to seeing who answered the call. They would come, much as she had all those long years ago. However, this host would not feel the hot sun beating down, but rather the cold, icy pull of Death. They would need to be strong, strong enough to fight off its hold, and still weak enough to seek, to be brought to their knees before her power.

Chlorr of the Mask felt the space that had once been her lips pull back in a grotesque grin. Wasn't it so lucky she had such a target in mind?

* * *

The man sat up, cold sweat a cruel sheen on his skin. The voice was back, a sibilant hiss in the back of his mind. He threw back the heavy quilt, staggering to the window. Knocking aside the shutters, he let cold air disperse the stale scent of sweat and fear.

The dreams had returned, and were growing more vivid every time he closed his eyes. They were always the same. The dark river he knew was Death tried to swallow him, wanting to take him deeper. He had no weapons. With a shaking hand, he brushed the brand on his forehead, wanting to feel the comforting hum of the Charter under his fingertips. Yet they felt strangely muffled, as if a barrier had been placed between the never-ending stream of Charter marks and flesh.

Uneasily, he poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter. In his bed, a woman stirred uneasily, cringing away from the cold that flowed through the open window. She had been a recent addition, yet another member of the staff attracted by his charm, his looks, and the power of his family. The steady stream of women had always helped keep the dreams away before, but no longer. It seemed something did not want to be ignored.

Running his hand through his hair, he watched the woman, staring dispassionately as she began to shiver. If she couldn't act as a barrier against the dreams, she had lost her true use for him. He supposed he could keep her on as a playmate for a while longer, but eventually she would have to be replaced for a more effective distraction.

Drinking deeply, he turned his thoughts back to the voice. It had been low, a faint murmur that he had felt echoed deep within himself, as if it were a memory, some lost part of consciousness long buried. He knew with some kind of terrible dread that it would come again, whispering his name in the dark hours of the night. Quaffing the rest of his wine, he crawled back into bed, feeling soft feminine limbs twine about his cold body in a fruitless search for warmth.

He would not heed the voice. He would take no notice of it, he decided. Even now he was convincing himself it was only some strange recurring dream. Determinedly lying to himself, he set about distracting himself once again with his bedmate.

It was just a dream; surely it was just a dream.

* * *

The first appearance of Chlorr and a hint.


	9. Parties and Post

I do not own any OKT material

**Chapter Eight: Parties and Post**

Nehima was bored to tears. It was February in the Old Kingdom, which meant she was assigned to her cousin's court. The season was devoted to parties, matters of state, and an endless parade of eligible men arranged by her royal relative. Tonight, it was a state dinner. From the upper gallery she watched the court swirl below, a riot of colors and fashions meant to awe and inspire. Nehima was draped in all the frippery she could stand, Ellimere being quite firm in her desire for her subject to appear to advantage.

"Remember to smile," a voice murmured above her ear.

Nehima barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes. "I shouldn't be here," she hissed through her teeth, smiling over her wine glass at a Northern ambassador. "It's nearly spring. I need to check the outposts, make sure the new growths are progressing as they should."

"It's February," Terceil retorted, only the faint creasing around his eyes hinting at his amusement as he moved next to his sister, resplendent in his formal attire. "You wouldn't make it three miles in the snow drifts. Relax and do the pretty for Her Majesty. She is only looking out for her favorite cousin turned Royal Forester."

Nehima scowled at the mention of her title. "You mean I'm her latest project," she snapped, nodding to a passing member of the Advisory Council.

Terceil placed her hand on his arm, towing her about the room. "Her Majesty has every right to ask for your presence during the social season. Curtsy for his Lordship, there's a good girl," he murmured. He didn't bother refuting her statement; Queen Ellimere was well known for taking an active interest in her cousin's lives, whether they wanted it or not.

Nehima did, sweeping leaf-green skirts wide. As soon as they moved on, the frown returned. "This is ridiculous," she said heatedly.

"I think you look rather fetching, sister dear," Terceil said lightly. "The colors of your office suit you."

This, Nehima had to concede, was true; the fresh green played against her features particularly well, making her ivory skin glow and her long dark hair shine. Her strange ocher eyes positively blazed against such a backdrop. The dress itself was covered in pale green embroidery, mimicking all manner of plant life with a delicate artistry. Cut close, it emphasized her trim figure and small waist. Still, the long sleeves could not disguise the muscles shifting under them, or the scars littering her hands, hinting that she wasn't quite the lady she appeared. And all the fine clothes in the world could not make up for the mutinous expression on her face.

Nehima snorted. "Fetching. Cousin Ellimere will be _so_ pleased. I think she's trying to set me up with one of the sons of the High Bridge mayor this time. They've been hounding me all month," she said, her tone becoming high and nasal. "'My lady, what fine eyes you have. May I fetch your drink? Your sword? How gallant you look, my lady!'" Nehima snorted again, disdain etched deep around her frown.

"They all have expressed interest in you. You do pass through every season," Terceil said seriously. Nehima glared at Terceil, and said nothing.

In the five years since her appointment as Royal Forester, Nehima had traveled the Old Kingdom more extensively than any of her family, save perhaps her parents. Her life had taken on a steady rhythm, spending spring, summer, and fall far a field. She was a strange half-breed, part warrior, part scholar, and part mage. None of the roles fit entirely. From time to time she felt a restlessness she could not shake, no matter how far from court she fled. She had not been home to Abhorsen's House since her exile years ago.

The passing of time had done little to soften Nehima, Terceil reflected, watching his sister stare out over their flurry of movement below. If anything, it had made her harder. She trained all winter with the Guard, honing her skills with blade and spell. She was almost as good with a sword as he was, a hair better with pole arms, and most certainly more competent on the road. She was used to traveling alone, sometimes going days at a time without seeing a living soul. He knew she had faced dangers in the wild; Dead, Living, and the Third Kindred were all foes she dealt with in her office. Her winters were spent in residence at the palace only because it was the easiest place to gather reports and work on the next crop.

"You could try for a little patience," he said quietly, smiling briefly at a passing courtier. "You know she only does this because she worries about you."

"I don't have the time to deal with unblooded whelps," Nehima growled. Terceil restrained himself from looking heavenward; no, his sister certainly had _not_ softened. "I have work to do," she said heatedly, eyes flashing a warning in the soft candlelight. "I-"

"Lady Nehima, might I tempt you down to the dance floor?" a young man asked from her shoulder, youthful face alight with hope. Terceil saw his sister's expression darken, and decided to intercede on the boy's behalf. No sense in starting the season with a murder and imprisonment in the family.

"Unfortunately, the Lady Forester and I are discussing business. Royal business. I'm sure you understand if she is unable to enjoy the more pleasurable aspects of Her Majesty's entertainments," he said smoothly, an indifferent smile pasted across his face. The boy nodded, looking crestfallen as he slumped away.

Next to him, Nehima eased, tension seeping out of her body. "Thanks," she whispered. Terceil gave her hand a squeeze and continued to lead her on.

* * *

It was well past midnight when Nehima was given a royal reprieve and allowed to return to her rooms. She slammed her door, leaning heavily against it as she began tearing at the jewelry on her wrists and neck, determined to rid herself of it as soon as possible. Though the palace was well heated, all of the metal felt too much like icy shackles on her wrists, throat, and hands.

Before long she was in her nightclothes, dancing across freezing flagstones to light a fire in the giant hearth at the center of the room. Soon a merry blaze was eating its way through the logs, heat washing over her as she settled herself at her workbench. Though she tried, even the usually calming routine of tending her young plantings did little to ease her mind.

She was listlessly staring into space when she saw it peeking out from under her usual stack of reports; thick, warm parchment with a sloping, vibrant emerald scrawl across its face. She pounced on it eagerly, fumbling with the heavy wax seal in her haste to open it.

Inside was a letter from Mogget. Her eyes devoured it greedily, taking in every word, every syllable. She looked forward to these letters; often times the only purely conversational correspondence she would receive for months on end. Every other letter she received these days was colored with duty, or some business of the family or another. It was treat to find these, a letter purely for its own sake, without requests or orders or questions about Charter knew what.

As always, the letter proved to be caustic, biting, and thoroughly entertaining; years in service to the Family had given Mogget an encyclopedic knowledge of humanity's foibles, and he relished any opportunity to share them with a captivated audience. In it, she found the typical gossip about her siblings and parents; Torrigan's disastrous attempts at two-ing with a girl in Bain, Arielle's botched job at the Wall (and the discoloration of her skin that had yet to fade), Filris's latest merchant conquest at the Glacier, and a surprisingly gentle look at her parent's day-to-day lives at the House. She wasn't surprised by Terciel or Damed's absence in the letter; the former had been posted in Belisaere for years, making Nehima well aware of any rumors floating about the palace, especially as she had been on hand to fix many of them. The latter Mogget never cared for; it wasn't surprising in the least that he considered the oldest child unworthy of his attention.

There was a small section devoted to her Uncle Sam, a great favorite of Mogget's. He was apparently due back from the Wall any day now, having added to its protections and repairing many of the Charter Stones in the Borderlands. Nehima was glad of that last part; Uncle Sam had spent much of his strength these past few years adding to the wards around the Kingdom, both physical and magical. It was about time he had a well-deserved rest.

As always, Nehima was astounded by depth and breadth of the cat's knowledge; at times he seemed more well informed than the Queen's own spymaster about the goings on in the Old Kingdom. Privately, Nehima believed this was due to a combination of enthusiastic eavesdropping, magical tampering, and some truly inspired snooping. While she wasn't sure she ought to approve, she didn't deny that it made for excellent reading material. Mogget had proved to be a wonderful pen-pal, offering up advice, insight, and sarcasm in turn, all much enjoyed and duly noted.

After reading the letter twice through, she sat back, feeling rather wistful; Mogget's letters, though welcome, never failed to make her feel homesick. He hadn't asked – he never did, which was one of the things she most appreciated about the cat – when she was coming back to Abhorsen's House. But she could almost feel his irritation, see it in the jagged letters and jerky scrawl, so different from the elegant script she was used to receiving. If penmanship was any indicator, Mogget had been growing impatient for her presence for some time.

Nehima glanced at the shuttered window, knowing that it looked out over the canals to the Kingdom proper. The House was some leagues away, no doubt buried in the heavy snows; still, she felt that itch returning, the restlessness that never eased. Perhaps it was time to make her way home, at least for a while. She hadn't dealt much with the trees down that way, and it was always good to have safe paths by which to reach Abhorsen's House. Perhaps that ought to be her new project. And the Family could hardly begrudge her a visit home; she hadn't been there in ages, and hadn't seen most of her siblings for nearly two years...

Decided, she picked up her quill and began to dash off a hasty reply. Once she had her plans in writing, she was sure to sleep better. It was time to return to Abhorsen's House.

* * *

We had a bit of a time jump, and are about to get to the good stuff. I am sorry for the delay; there was a wedding in the family (yay!) this weekend. It was a beautiful ceremony, and I am so happy I was able to go. That being said, driving all over the state and attending multiple family functions doesn't exactly lend itself to my writing schedule. :) Thanks again!


	10. On The Road

I do not own any OKT material

**Chapter Nine: On The Road**

The King-as-was saw Nehima off alone, a rather private send off for the Lady Forester. She preferred it that way. She had said her goodbyes to Terciel the night before, having received Royal permission to venture out at last. The late arrival of spring had delayed her departure, March flurries keeping her palace bound until the start of April. The air was still cool, the definite bite a stubborn remnant of winter's grasp on the Old Kingdom. However, Nehima would not be deterred and had packed according to the fickle nature of the Kingdom.

King Touchstone waited by the main gate, his seat perfect atop a magnificent destrier. He watched as his niece made her final preparations, tightening a saddle girth and checking her packs one last time before mounting up. As soon as she was settled, he turned his mount toward the path and began ambling down the road.

They went some distance in total silence, the city not entirely awake yet. Dawn was still faint, with some hours before it would be fully realized; by setting off in the dim morning light, Nehima hoped to spend as many daylight hours as possible on the road, hitting an outpost well before dusk. Touchstone approved of her plan; though Nehima could be horrifically blunt, she was one of the most experienced travelers in the Family. She had no illusions about the safety of traveling before the spring thaw, and wasn't inclined to take such a venture lightly.

They made good time traveling through the city, with only the wharves awake. The streets were silent, barely showing any signs of life. The sky was a glorious rose shade by the time Nehima, the King, and his guard reached the city gate.

Nehima reigned in her mount, turning in her saddler to hug her Uncle one-armed. Touchstone returned the embrace easily, deep wrinkles carving into his face around his eyes and mouth. Nehima squeezed his hand, his skin shifting under the pressure; it felt alarmingly frail to her touch. Touchstone saw her eyes flicker, and squeezed back, a reassuring gesture of strength and solidity that gave her some comfort. It was a simple thing, a reassurance she had long thought herself beyond. Still, it made her feel able to turn her horse through the gate, nodding the to the guards as she passed. Dawn gilded the path as she set out, finally free of the confines of Belisaere.

* * *

Nehima spent some time riding in silence, seemingly lost in thought. Still, her eyes didn't miss a single movement, nor her ears a single sound; caution was a hard-bought lesson in the Old Kingdom. Learning a thing twice was often a fatal exercise.

Alert to the world, she mulled over the state of the King-as-was. A week earlier she had gone to Ellimere with her plan, only to be dismissed. The Queen was unhappy with her latest attempt at playing matchmaker to her cousin, and seemed inclined to keep her on for an extra month.

She had slumped out to the private gardens, seeking peace. Instead, she found the royal offspring running rampant, clearly intent on enjoying the first lasting sun of springtime. Touchstone had been there lounging on the flagstone steps. His lazy posture belied sharp eyes; the King-as-was would have to be old indeed before he lost his edge.

As she had been this morning, Nehima had been struck by how old her uncle looked. Though his wife was entering into her later years, Sabriel had aged gracefully, time supplanting majesty in place of beauty. Privately, Nehima hoped she looked so well in her sixth decade; though not vain, she couldn't deny that her Aunt was good-looking whatever her age. Touchstone was considerably worse for wear. He was almost withered, leathery skin showing the blue tracery of veins beneath. Hands, though comfortable on a sword hilt, were gnarled and twisted with age. His hair had long since gone white, and his famous grey eyes had a decidedly milky tinge to them these days. Nehima had known that the work of repairing Charter Stones would someday require payment; she just had not expected it to come so soon. Touchstone had effective aged twenty years in under a decade, a far cry from the towering figure of her youth.

As always, her Uncle had prodded and wheedled, getting the truth out of her gradually. With any other member of her family, she would have flared up at once. But Touchstone wasn't just family. He had taught her how to ride and her first Charter spells. And when she was older, he began to teach her the finer points of the fighting arts. So instead she unburdened herself, a dejected pupil to her training master. A scant hour later, she had been recalled to the Throne room, where the Queen gave her permission in what was a decidedly sulky manner.

Nehima strongly suspected that Touchstone had interceded on her behalf. She didn't dare say as much, though; Ellimere could easily rescind her royal good will and keep her Lady Forester locked in the tower while parading a bevy of eligible young men about all season. Such a threat was more than sufficient to help Nehima, normally the most outspoken of her siblings, err on the side of tact.

Shaking her head, Nehima glanced about. The sun was rising and the sky was a crisp, clear blue. If the weather held, she could make good time to the outpost. She kicked her heels lightly, catching her gelding's attention. He was a large beast; the old battle scars by far his most attractive feature. Where other horses in the Royal stables were bred for appearance, Varna had been bred for function alone, with little to no attention on aesthetics. His coat was a murky dun shade, flecked with white. But he was one of the best horses in the Kingdom for long distance travel. For that, Nehima accepted his ugly visage and irascible nature.

It was that skill Nehima needed now. There were several leagues to travel before nightfall, plenty of places on the road that were less than safe. With that in mind she nudged the gelding into a smooth canter, his hoof beats flowing like water over the frosted road.

* * *

The first few days of her journey passed easily. Since ascending to the throne, Queen Ellimere had focused much of her time and energy on updating the Old Kingdom's infrastructure. Though lacking Ancelstierran technology, the Old Kingdom's roads and causeways had benefited greatly from Royal attention. Outposts and way stations were now found every league or so along the main roads. Nehima did not have to worry about finding shelter, or food, or casting Diamonds of Protection those first few nights. The Guardsmen at the stations, long familiar with her after four years, had made ready for her arrival. She found a cot set up in the stillroom for her, and a fresh stable and hot oat mash for Varna at each rest stop.

They both appreciated the leisurely pace. Undoubtedly there would come a time for haste. In the meantime, Nehima was content to alternate between a light trot and an easy canter, slowly eating up the miles between Belisaere and Abhorsen's House.

On the dawn of the third day, Nehima turned away from the main road, leaving behind the town of Orchyre. She needed to cut across country to make the Ratterlin. From there it would be a simple matter of following the river south. She was wary; though the forests in this part of the Old Kingdom had been one of her first projects, the marks in her trees did not guarantee protection from the Dead or those of the Third Kindred. They could only dissuade. They would do little against a truly powerful Dead spirit or Free Magic construct. Now was not the time to be overly confident in her creations' capabilities.

Still, the road was easy enough. Most of the area had been farmland once. Now it had been reclaimed. She rode through the countryside, steadily making for the first true wooded area for miles. Just north of Mount Auden was a rather large lake; it was there she planned to make camp. The trees, recently thinned out in the resurgence of the Kingdom, had been replaced by many of her own. It would be as safe as she could hope for, doubly protected by Charter and running water.

Around noon of the fourth day, she stopped at one of the last homesteads before the copse. The farmer and his wife had always been kind to her on previous visits; they again lived up to their reputation of mighty generosity to those in the Royal service. Nehima's stores, already in relatively good shape, were nearly doubled as the couple heaped more and more rations upon her, deaf to her protests.

Varna was pleased with the extra victuals; the farmer's wife had a love for horses, and had spoiled him tremendously with apples and sugar over the years. It was as Nehima was saddling her oddly happy mount that the farmer stopped by, a strangely nervous look on his usually jovial face.

"Lady For'ster," he said gruffly, looking over his shoulder. Nehima glanced, and saw the old woman flapping her hand impatiently at her husband. The man hurried to comply. "Me wife an' I, well, we isn't the folk to be spreadin' gossip now. But there's been talk of late of strange happenin's on the road to the River."

Nehima nodded, taking great care to cinch the saddle girth. The man, seemingly comforted by her silence, continued. "Well, folk 'ave been disappearin', disappearin' so's even the garrison can't find 'em. South o' High Bridge, mostly," the man paused, and then said in a whisper, "'an now there's talk of something o'er by the lake. Creature of fire an' light, my boy Tobe says. Keep your wits about you, Lady For'ster, and Charter guard you," he said fervently.

Nehima was touched by his concern. She filed away his warning; these people had survived long enough in the Old Kingdom to know what was what. If they and their folk were concerned, it would be best to tread lightly.

* * *

Nehima reached the forest by nightfall, setting up camp between four of her Charter Woods. The stood as the four cardinal points in a diamond of protection, a far stronger and steadier casting than even most accomplished Charter Mages could hope to cast alone. She spent the first night at relative ease, her hand loosely clasped around the large, canvas covered item she normally wore on her back.

Her next day in the wood was far less comforting. Though her trees were a constant comfort, she could not shake the feeling that something was waiting deep in the forest. As she proceeded, she noticed small things, little things that warned her something was amiss. As morning turned to afternoon, birds ceased to sing. Animals were nowhere to be found. And underneath it all was the unnerving scent of rain on hot metal.

The smell had been growing for some time when Nehima halted her horse. Inside a clearing, a scant twenty yards away, was a man. He was sleeping against a tree. In a blink, she had drawn and knocked an arrow, mind drawing from the Charter for marks of binding, marks of blinding, and marks of containment.

This man was not human, that she knew. He carried no weapons, bore no Charter mark. He seemed to repel dirt; even though the day was clear, Nehima and her horse both bore signs of deep woods travel. And if all that were not enough, his shadow gave him away as he slept, a shifting, writhing mass unwilling to remain stationary for long.

Nehima breathed deeply, the acrid tang of Free Magic heavy in her nostrils. She drew, bow string taunt against her cheek.

Seemingly unaware of his danger, the man yawned and stretched, arching his spine at a nearly impossible angle. He was a handsome creature, pale skinned and dressed for travel. His hair was pure starlight. Slowly he opened dazzlingly vivid eyes, their green depths piercing even at a distance. A smile ghosted over his features.

"Hello darling. Have you got any fish?"

* * *

I wonder who this could be... :)

I will confess, part of the reason I like this chapter is because it's named after Kerouac's book. Yes, I'm one of those people :) There are a few literary references scattered throughout my stories.

I also have some good news and bad news. The good news is I've written out most of the next four chapters. (Yay!) The bad news is it's all on a tiny legal pad, so I need to transfer it. Updates should be on the way. Thanks again!

~H.A.


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